


Soul Searching

by JamiesWrestlebois (InsertImaginativeNameHere)



Series: The Premier Wrestling Federation [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Birthmarks, Gen, Latino Character, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Training, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-10-06 04:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertImaginativeNameHere/pseuds/JamiesWrestlebois
Summary: An AU following a group of trainees as they work their way through their training in the PWF.This part focuses on Sal, who wants to establish himself as a solid prospect. But he's torn between two sides of his life, and what kind of person he wants to be, even before he steps into the ring.Let's take it from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW this isn't my usual thing, to anyone who knows me and what I normally do. This is just gonna be a lil side thing I add to occasionally. Probably not all that often, sadly, but it's a fun writing experiment and I'm gonna see where it takes me. Only Sal is my son, everyone else isn't. He's my boy here. 
> 
> Thank you to AttackPlatypus for letting me play in this playground, thank you also for your help with this chapter. Big thanks for letting me use John, I have a feeling he's gonna be really important for Sal's journey.
> 
> Big appreciated.

1/

He’d spent over an hour applying makeup before he set off for his first day. He stared at himself in every reflective surface, and knew it wouldn’t hold up under close inspection, but it was better than nothing. 

On the bus, he sketched a couple of masks. A few ideas, costumes, and concepts. He liked to draw; he’d been an art major really when he’d started to get scouted. Smirking, he remembered his high school art teacher, telling him to draw something other than luchadors hurtling around the ring. So he’d drawn regular wrestlers instead.

He practised signing his name, the name he’d picked out for the stage. Long, swirling letters, a cursive z; then the short, simple ‘Luis’. Salazar Luis.  _ That _ was cool. 

His skin itched, and he knew his birthmark would be redder than ever later on, but he didn’t want that to be anyone’s first impression of him. No way, José. Actually, no  _ more _ José. Salazar Luis. Sal, for short. He’d legally change his name. Salazar Luis was the man with a plan.

The man with a plan almost missed his bus stop, though. Sal ran to the front of the bus, apologising profusely, and thanked the bus driver in garbled Spanglish. That was a clear sign he was nervous, when he started fumbling on his words and mixing himself up. But who wouldn’t be nervous? This whole thing was crazy.

He was outside the PWF training facility, aka the Forge. He was starting today.

He wished that bus had run him over.

Taking a deep breath, Sal headed inside. He clung to his notebook like a frightened kid. In a way, he kind of was. He really didn’t want anyone to see what a fanboy he was, when it boiled down to it.

And he thought about how he’d got here. High school wrestling underdog, but never champ. College scholarship - for art. Wrestling for fun at the weekends. Underground gigs, indy gigs, bit change. Then, the offer; six months training intensively in Mexico. Of course he took it. Dropped out of school for it. His foster father had bragged about him to all of his friends; ‘my kid, my son’s a wrestler’. He’d come back, done a few shows here and there. Some masked, some not. Two different characters. Two styles, really. One that he loved, but he struggled at, and had to work harder, and the other which came more naturally, but terrified him, because his face would be exposed and he hated the thought of that. 

PWF had never said which they’d scouted him for. 

He’d have to figure that out. He changed into his workout gear quickly, and headed through to where he needed to be. Entering the training hall, he swallowed. This was...deeply, deeply intimidating. 

Jogging on the spot with pent-up energy, he glanced around. His class was a varied bunch, some big, athletic types, one tiny little scrap of a girl with vibrant blue hair that definitely rang a bell in Sal’s indy-loving mind. There was someone who looked like an instagram model, there was a Korean-American guy with shaved hair, there was a loudmouth kind of guy chatting around to everyone. Every one of them probably deserved this more than Sal. He felt sick. 

Just as he was about to cut and run for the bathroom, he spotted someone he knew. Well, he’d met once. At a meet-and-greet. Because he was a nerdy little fanboy, obviously. He didn’t know if she remembered him, but fuck it. What did he have to lose? He headed over to the woman, who was tan and muscular, with a crucifix tattoo. Araceli Ramos, who he’d seen perform as a legit and actual professional wrestler. She was pretty cool. This was fucking crazy.

“ _ Hey, uh- sorry, you probably don’t wanna be pestered, but we kinda met at a thing once. _ ” He cringed at his own accent. Yeah, his Spanish  _ sucked _ . Big time. 

Araceli blinked, in confused recognition. “ _ Wait- yeah, I know you. You won that juniors comp in Cali last spring, right? _ ” When she said ‘juniors’, she sounded innately disdainful. Like it didn’t count, just because he was still finding his feet. Like  _ he _ didn’t count, full stop.

“ _ A little bit _ ,” Sal squirmed. “ _ I mean, I only got to the final because my semi-final opponent got disqualified. And I had to delete Twitter because a bunch of people were mad about it.” _ He shifted from foot to foot. “ _ Actually, I didn’t know you watched it. I was talking about the meet ‘n’ greet the week before that. I kinda got your autograph. _ ”

Araceli laughed. Not...altogether nicely, Sal realised. “ _ So what, you’re not going for the two-face look today? _ ” She indicated Sal’s cheek. “ _ You have surgery, or are you actually wearing foundation? _ ”

Sal’s stomach coiled in vicious anger. “ _ Bit rich calling  _ **_me_ ** _ two-faced, don’t you think? _ ”

“ _ Hey, least I speak español correctamente, gringo, _ ” Araceli shot back over her shoulder, as she turned to saunter off. Sal was about to lose his patience completely, when they were mercifully interrupted. 

“New trainees, over here now!” a voice barked. Ken Shamrock. The only person that could possibly terrify Sal more than his other students, right now. He obeyed, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the other Mexican-American wrestler. Never meet your heroes, right? Or never meet them again, off-stage, when they don’t have to act like heroes, and can just be colossal fucking dicks. 

Ken continued, cutting through Sal’s thoughts with knife-like precision. “My name is Ken Shamrock, the head instructor here at the Forge. Over the next two weeks it'll be my job to break down each and every one of you and I'm going to damn well push you past your limits.” 

Sal nodded to himself. Being broken and remade, that was the point of this place. It  _ was _ called the Forge. Now more than ever, he was determined to rise to the challenge. He had to prove to Araceli he deserved to be here. Had to prove to  _ himself _ , too. 

He could do this.

“You all are here,” Shamrock kept going, “Because you received an invite and because of your athletic backgrounds. There are Olympians, NFL players, Indie wrestlers and more here today. I'm here to tell you that NONE of that matters anymore. You're all just sacks of meat and that's all you will ever be until you prove otherwise.”

Great. That was an oddly cannibalistic way of looking at things. You felt like if you failed, you’d be swallowed up. Consumed, destroyed. 

If he failed here, he’d have to try find an art school that would take him back. He’d definitely feel too defeated to continue wrestling. But then, he’d said that to himself before. Never had he managed to actually quit. This was what he was meant to be doing, he knew it. If he failed here, he’d go back to art school, but it’d be a matter of months, years, before he was back doing what he was born to all over again. 

Shamrock fixed them all with a hardened glare. “Before we begin for the day you’re starting with a three mile run. That’s either twelve times around the track in here or you can change and run all the way down to Mauer street and back. Either way I want you back here in thirty minutes, go!”

Sal opted to do laps. He was happier when there were less people looking at him, as a rule. The exception was when he was performing. So running outside? Not really his thing, especially not in this cold. But laps? Hell, he’d spent most of phys ed misbehaving so they’d sentence him to laps, instead of having to play team sports he disliked. While his peers were loitering around waiting for the ball to come to them, he was running laps of the hall, getting fitter and quicker and  _ thinking _ , enjoying the space inside his own head.

Of course, that only really worked when you were the only one running laps. Which he wasn’t. Not paying attention, he crashed into some guy. 

“Shit, sorry!” he blurted, immediately.

The dude laughed it off. He was a big guy, a giant almost, African-American, with some of the coolest sleeve tattoos Sal had seen. “No worries, bro. Wanna jog this one together?”

Sal nodded. “I get inside my head when I run. Might need someone to prevent anymore collisions.” 

The big guy laughed. “Sure thing. I’m John, by the way. Crisom.” He extended a hand, still jogging along. Sal shook it, having to run a little quicker to keep pace with the much,  _ much _ taller guy.

“Salazar Luis. You can call me Sal.” 

“Woah, cool name,” John whistled. He caught Shamrock glaring at them, and pulled a face. “We better move it. Talk later?”

“Definitely,” Sal promised, and sped up a little more. 

It turned out trying to run alongside someone quite as big as Crisom was a bit of a fool’s errand. Fortunately, Sal had plenty of stamina, and a good turn of speed himself. That guy who kept cracking jokes, Lance Douglas, started singing songs from Mulan at them. Rolling his eyes, Sal flipped the bird, but couldn’t help laughing. What could he say, it was funny? 

They finished pretty much together, standing off to the side, while those who’d opted to go outside filtered in. 

Sal was catching his breath, chugging excessively from his water bottle, when he heard something. Some girl he recognised as an Olympian, Maroney, had made a snide, catty comment about one of the others.

“Oh look, the mute is back.” Some people laughed. Sal was disappointed, but not surprised, to see that Araceli was one of them. 

He looked over at the girl in question, the familiar blue-haired one, with more than a bit of sympathy. You didn’t go through your whole life with a giant-ass birthmark like his without learning what bullying felt like. 

He was going to say something to John, but the brunette girl hanging around with the blue-haired chick acted even before Sal’s thoughts could catch up with themselves, hitting Maroney across the side of her head. Sal wished he’d caught that on video. He’d remix it so, so many times. Mm watcha say. Despacito, where it kicks in at the slap. Super Mario theme, with the slap on loop. It was that satisfying to watch. As it stood, he’d have to preserve that one in his memory.

“You don’t say another goddamn word, you understand?” the tall brunette was growling, through gritted teeth.

“What the fuck-” Maroney managed, before getting hit again, and this time Sal couldn’t suppress the satisfied smirk, which he directed at Araceli. She scowled, turning away in disgust. 

“I said...you don’t talk!” the taller woman yelled. She leaned down to be level with the Olympian’s face, which-  _ if looks could kill _ \- was a picture of utter fury, and  _ hatred _ . ““I don’t care how many fucking medals you’ve won princess, try that mean girl shit around me again and I will slap the bitch out of you.”

Mic drop. The muscular brunette turned on her heel and headed back to her friend. Sal, grinning breathlessly, turned to Crisom. 

“So that happened.”

John nodded, a little awed. “Damn, son. No prisoners.”

“None whatsoever.” 

His new friend’s face turned into a mad grin. “You’re into it, aren’t you?”

“Anyone who takes down bullies is in my good books,” Sal replied diplomatically. “I’m not here to date. Besides, she isn’t really my type.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Sal shrugged. He didn’t really know what his type was. But he also knew everyone here was ridiculously out of his league, so it didn’t matter one bit. 

He was just meat here, right? 

Until he proved otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> I know it's daft of me to take on any new projects, but when I've got time, I definitely wanna explore this more.  
> I only have four ongoing projects now on here! That's something!  
> ........I am a mess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got half of this written in class, because I am a horror, but it's creative writing degree course so I figure...y'know, I was still working.
> 
> Sal is a good boy, and at this point in writing, I would die for John, and I'm writing it  
> Hype

2/

Partnering with John was proving to be a double-edged sword. He was fun to work with, and had good energy. He’d also been through this part of their training before, before issues had forced him to delay, so knew the moves already, which was both a positive and...well. Sal felt like a football. The other guy was so big and crazy strong, it was ridiculous. It reminded Sal, almost, of his second foster family, when he’d practised with their kid. Their kid had always won, and it had always ended with Sal hitting the deck. This felt as repetitive.

“Y’alright, lil guy?” John called out, as Sal hopped to his feet again.

“You won’t be if you keep calling me that,” he muttered. John blinked, and then laughed loudly. He slapped Sal on the back in what was presumably intended to a friendly way, but John was so big it almost winded him. “Sweet Jesus. If I’m ever choking, don’t bother doing the heimlich. Just let me die.”

John laughed again, eagerly bouncing on his feet, ready for the next throw. He was exactly like an over-active labrador, and Sal was a cat person. But despite that, he did like John’s company. Not to mention his unflappable enthusiasm.

What had really attached him to the big guy was an incident on their second day. They were finishing up for the day, already falling into a routine kind of banter that involved Sal telling John exactly what he thought in the bluntest terms, and John laughing it off in that trademark, easy-going way. Sal had made some kind of deadpan remark about college football players lacking more than two brain cells, which John had practically hooted at. Of course, it just happened when Araceli was going by. She shot them both a look of irritation.

“ _ I suppose you have to be funny, looking like that _ ,” she snarked. She pointed right at Sal’s birthmark. “ _ Your makeup’s smudged. _ ” With that, she stalked off. 

“What’s her problem?” John rolled his eyes. “Man, some people hate fun.”

Sal was shaking. “Excuse me,” he said quickly, darting to the bathroom. He heard John call after him, and started to walk faster.

John intercepted him. “Hey, hey wait. Don’t let her get to you. She’s got some kinda stick up her ass.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sal hissed. “My face-”

John looked at him strangely. “It’s fine.”

“The birthmark,” Sal insisted. “God, I look like a freak.”

“Hey!” An enormous hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Don’t talk like that, okay? So you got what, a little birthmark-”

“It’s huge,” Sal corrected. “It’s like, half my face. It’s the worst.”

“Yeah, that’s what they want you to think,” John said, so confident you couldn’t doubt him. “People are assholes sometimes, man. C’mon. Wanna go grab dinner?”

So they had. Just some falafel place round the corner. Since then, Sal had been a little less self-conscious about his appearance, though he hadn’t stopped applying a layer of concealer before coming in. He’d also developed a respect for John, even if the guy was way, way too loud. He wasn’t the kind of friend Sal would have picked out, but he was the friend that he’d made. 

That didn’t change the fact that partnering with him was beyond exhausting, and Sal had come to the conclusion that all people over about 6’3’’ should be culled, have their legs cut off, or otherwise have their height limited. 

Especially when it was Sal’s turn to throw John. Now that was just unreasonable. Fortunately, Sal managed to get by well enough that Ken Shamrock merely grunted in acknowledgement; that blue-haired girl was getting the brunt of his ire lately. It wasn’t so much that Sal was coasting, he was definitely pushing himself to his limits, but he was in a position of comfortable competence. He knew he’d have to step it up as they continued. 

“Holy shit, dude,” John said, picking himself up after a particularly decent hip toss. “You are a  _ lot _ stronger than you look.”

“You have a lot of momentum,” Sal countered, raggedly catching his own breath. “Gravity is not your friend. Consider being shorter in future.”

“You’re just mad you’re tiny,” John replied. He reached across and ruffled Sal’s hair.

“Never do that,” muttered Sal, smiling a little despite himself. 

They continued on like this until lunch. Sal, always quiet, had never been told off for talking too much before, but today Ken had yelled at them to stop acting like an old married couple. That was pretty humiliating, and ordinarily would have embarrassed Sal far too much. Today, though, he didn’t mind. Nobody was paying that much attention. People were starting to fall into their own cliques and focus on themselves. So for once, he didn’t care about the negative attention. Brushed it off instead. Carried on. 

For lunch, he’d made himself stir fry the night before; chicken, noodles, okra. It was his go-to quick recipe. While he ate, his brain worked overtime. He needed to draw, keep his brain busy. With one hand, he shovelled food into his face. With the other, he doodled absentmindedly in his main sketchbook. Costume ideas. Mostly. Actually, what he was drawing right now was Lance Douglas in a clown suit. It was fun though.

He heard a laugh over his shoulder, and glanced up to see a blonde woman peering over at his art. He reddened. John had gone to quickly run some kind of errand; Sal was in this on his own.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to pry,” the woman said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “You’re a good artist. And that drawing of Lance is  _ uncanny _ . He’d find that funny, you should show him.”

Sal shook his head. “I don’t really show people my art much. Though I made a bunch of unofficial Rey Mysterio shirts in college one time. They sold pretty well on redbubble, if you- you know redbubble, right?”

“Oh, sure,” the woman replied. “It’s not really my lane, but I can appreciate the stuff on there.”

Sal nodded vaguely. “So I did that once. I also designed my fo- my brother’s ring gear. He quit competing though.”

“Really? Why?”

“Became a brain surgeon,” Sal replied, deadpan. He smirked. “I’m serious. He quit wrestling to go to medical school.”

“That’s crazy,” the woman said, shaking her head in disbelief. “But you really designed his ring gear?”

“A friend made it. I just did the sketches. We were still in high school at the time, so it was nothing major,” Sal said, through a mouthful of noodles. “If you want, I can do a couple sketches. Just unofficially.”

“That’d be great,” the woman replied. “Do you have instagram?” He was about to reply, when she glanced over her shoulder to see Britney Shane coming toward her. “Sorry, I’m gonna have to go, I think Brit wants me. I’m Noelle, by the way. Noelle Foley. You can find me online, message me sometime, okay?” She waved, and jogged off to catch Britney. Looked like they’d lost blue. 

Sal felt bad for that girl, North, Shamrock had kept calling her. She seemed so tense and anxious. He knew that feeling. And there was the mutism, which made Sal relate even more. He’d barely spoken at all for a few years. Like John had said, people were assholes. Sal hoped she’d be alright.

Huh. Was definitely still familiar. Maybe he’d caught a match of hers once, on the indie circuits, and her name had slipped his mind. Probably something like that.

He spotted John, watching him in comical despair. 

“Dude, do you have any idea who that was?”

“She said her name was Noelle,” Sal answered, matter-of-factly.

“Noelle  _ Foley _ , Sal _ azar _ ,” John pointed out, over-enunciating Sal’s name for effect. “You know. Mick Foley’s daughter. I leave for five minutes, and you’re getting all buddy-buddy, chatting away. Pretty cute.”

“She liked my drawings,” Sal said. “That’s all.”

“So she’s not your type, then?” John’s eyes glinted mischievously. 

“Like every other girl at this place you’ve asked me about thus far? Yes.” John seemed very determined to get Sal a date. It was thoughtful but… “I’m already seeing someone. Long distance. And that’s all you’re getting.” 

“Awww, c’mon, man!” John was not going to stop pestering him soon. And he didn’t. Sal let minimal details slip, but otherwise said nothing. Eventually, he gave up. “Man, you’re a tough customer. You’d need KGB tricks to make you talk.”

“Thank you.”

“I wanna meet her, if she’s ever in town,” John said casually. “Though knowing you, she could be in the room and you’d say jack. You’re a damn nuisance, Sal.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Sal retorted.

When class reconvened, Ken pointedly reassigned their partners. John was moved off with someone else, and Sal was working with a total stranger too, a former Muay Thai champion whose blows, while obviously telegraphed, pretty much always packed a punch. But Sal knew what he was doing here, and they moved through the moves steadily, not to mention in total silence. Without someone to bring out his sarcastic streak, Sal was quiet. It was a decent partnership, both of them working solidly, and sensibly. Better now that he wasn’t against an utter behemoth. 

He realised quickly that his new partner, who was actually Thai, was struggling somewhat with English. He seemed to understand most of what was being said, but didn’t seem confident articulating himself. That wasn’t really an issue with this class right now, and he knew the moves they were working with, and the terminology, inside-out. But Sal worried for him cutting promos. It couldn’t be easy. He’d been thrown in at the deep end with English himself, when he’d started school way back. So he got it. 

He tried to empathise with everyone, pretty much. Some people made it difficult though, like Araceli. He also didn’t care for Shawne Merriman, for instance, when he dropped too hard onto Kim Jon Su. But he did feel bad for Sonya North. Ken was really singling her out now, yelling a lot. 

Then it was his turn, for the pair of them to enter the ring. For his own part, he did well, demonstrating his assigned moves with his usual practical, pragmatic style. His partner did better. Soon as he stepped into the ring, the Thai boxer became looser, less tightly wound and irate. When he dropped, Sal saw the other guy smile for the first time, falling through the air. Ken didn’t exactly praise either of them much, but they got a nod, and shared a brief look of mutual respect and pride. It had gone well.

He’d just got out of the ring himself, so he didn’t see what had happened, but he heard Ken shouting . Sal didn’t like seeing people singled out; some things just got under his skin. The last thing he wanted to do was to witness someone else being bullied, especially by someone so famous. He just zoned it out, barely glancing over. His current training partner, however, was more distracted, and nudged Sal to look at what was going on. That was how he caught it, barely, the blue-haired girl flying through the air in fluid, perfect motions. His jaw dropped. That was something he’d always admired in his favourite performers, the ability to  _ fly _ . So well, so beautifully executed. A springboard corkscrew moonsault. 

He’d never do that, not with that kind of artistry and grace.

And he knew right then where he knew Sonya North from. He’d seen her, the Blue Moon, give it her all. He’d seen her fly. His foster brother’s graduation party, they’d all gone out, and Sal had got food poisoning and missed the rest of the matches. Sonya North’s name had slipped his mind after the rest of the evening went so far south. But for those moments when he’d been watching her work, he’d been enrapt. For those few moments.

Soon as class was over, he went back to John’s side. “Did you see that? What she can do?”

“Dude, I think everyone with eyes saw that,” John replied, laughing. “She’s something else. Think this is the first time I’ve seen you this excited. You can’t even be sarcastic about her.”

“I direct my sarcasm where it’s deserved, thank you,” Sal sniped back. “Like blockhead football players with more muscle than sense.” 

John laughed, and ruffled Sal’s hair. “I gotta run, sorry bro. Got a call from my Mom earlier.” He didn’t elaborate, but Sal knew enough to know that his family situation was difficult. It had even delayed his training. “Catch you around, okay?”

Sal nodded. He made his own exit, still thinking about what he’d witnessed. Everyone had been awed. Ken Shamrock, whatever he might try to say, he had to have been somewhat won over, much as he might have muttered ‘next group’ and tried to cow everyone silent. He had to have been somewhat impressed. This was all running through his mind while he cleaned up, changed clothes, and then piled on layers before heading out into the miserable goddamn cold. Some things he liked about this city, for sure. Food, people, the atmosphere, whatever. The weather? Not one of them.

He was walking round to his apartment, one of the Forge trainee places, when he spotted a familiar focused gait ahead. His partner from that day was walking just a little ahead, wrapped up equally warmly. No exaggeration, that guy was genuinely intimidating. His quiet wasn’t like Kim Jon Su, who just didn’t see the need to speak too much, or like North’s anxiety, or Sal’s own reclusive nature. His quiet was almost furious. Sal thought about it for a minute, before jogging to catch up.

“Hey, sorry. We worked together today, but I forgot your name.”

The guy gave him a look, and sniffed. For one sickening moment, Sal thought this would be another Araceli, that he’d get blown off again. “It’s Khaeng,” the guy replied, after a moment. “That’s short for Khemkhaeng Buramuk, but you’ll never remember that, so just Khaeng is fine. Or Khem. Don’t care.” His English was fluenter than Sal had thought, but heavily accented, and tinged with a note of bitterness. 

“Sal,” Sal told him. “That’s uh, short for Salazar Luis, but you won’t remember that, right?”

Khaeng didn’t react for a moment, then smiled. “I forgot it already.” He seemed to relax, some of that anger dissipating. Why he was angry though, Sal couldn’t figure. Was he just frustrated about being understood, or was there something more going on? “You worked good today. I don’t hate your style.”

Sal blinked. That was...by far the weirdest compliment he’d got since being here. “You don’t hate it?”

“Yeah, I hate most of these people,” Khaeng replied. “They are not good fighters. I could kick their asses real-life. Dunno. Might.” He shrugged vaguely. “You, interesting. Don’t hate it. North, cool, talented. Shane, could kill me and that’s cool.”

“If you don’t rate this kind of thing, why are you here?” Sal asked. “Why not stick to martial arts, if that’s your thing?”

Khaeng’s expression soured again. “My boss say I should do this. I respect him. So here I am. It’s cold. Don’t enjoy that.”

Sal nodded sympathetically. “I’m from New Mexico, so I understand.”

“ _ New  _ Mexico?” Khaeng furrowed his brows. “They made a second Mexico? When did that happen?” He seemed caught up on this, muttering to himself in his own language and shaking his head in confusion.

“It’s a state,” Sal told him. “Down in the South, borders regular Mexico. Way warmer there than here. I miss it. What’s it like where you’re from?”

Khaeng scowled. “Not ugly.”

“Fair enough,” Sal replied, and kept on walking. 

As it happened, Khaeng lived down the hall. He was obnoxious, and rude, and somewhat arrogant. But he was funny, and he seemed alright really. Just a little bit different. Sal extended an open invitation to come around any time, and he was surprised when Khaeng seemed to genuinely consider it, said he’d see how he felt. He wasn’t so distant as he wanted to seem. He was lonely, and frustrated, and struggling. They agreed to walk over to the Forge together in future. Sal wondered what John would make of the stubborn Thai martial artist, and figured John would probably find him hilarious, and tease him relentlessly for taking himself too seriously. Yeah, that’d be fun. He wanted them to meet now. His two almost-friends.

Back in his own apartment, Sal flopped directly into bed and sprawled out. His phone buzzed.

Groaning in exhaustion, he checked it.

_ have a good day kicking ass???????? _

He typed back:  _ yeah, it was good. mightve made another buddy, maybe. _

The reply was quick:  _ look at u go, babe! lysm xxx _

_ ilu2 _ , he typed out, hesitated, and then sent. 

With three kisses attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hugest thanks to AP as always, could not do this without your support and motivation.  
> thank you readers too, it's super appreciated
> 
> Khaeng is an OC I've already had for a little bit. In his usual verse, he's an assassin. Just a martial artist here though, thankfully, and he's going to be great fun. I toyed between using him and another OC I have, who is a Taiwanese kickboxer, but the other one curses far too much. He's even more obnoxious. So I went with my less obnoxious OC, and even he's still an utter bastard.
> 
> I love my horrid children they're fun


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyyyyyyy chapter 3 at long last eyup I am so HAPPY i got this done   
> lot of stuff this chapter, bear with  
> I hope it works out for you guys

3/

There was a girl shrieking in the hallway, hammering on the door of Khaeng’s apartment, while Khaeng hid in Sal’s kitchen. He was shirtless. This was his third breakup since he’d arrived in America, and he’d been here less than a month. Sal looked at his pacing classmate and rolled his eyes.

“Really?”

The Thai boxer nodded. “Third. I dated a girl when I first got here, I dated other girl after she broke up with me, and I dated this girl breaking my door for this weekend.” He looked genuinely hurt, as he glanced toward the door. “Bad at this.”

“No shit,” Sal replied. “What the fuck?”

Khaeng shrugged, and resumed pacing. “Good at getting girlfriends. Good at falling in love. Bad at dating. People leave.” He scowled. “Hate people.” 

He looked like he was about to cry. Sal sighed and fetched his newest friend a beer without another word. It was confusing. In his whole life prior to this, he hadn’t ever really had to be moral support in this way. Especially not for someone he barely knew. But he let Khaeng sleep on the couch for the night. 

That was kind of what friends were for, right?

 

-

 

Cut day loomed overhead, in the next few weeks. He worked as hard as he could, staying late to practise, pushing himself to ridiculous degrees. Every night he collapsed in bed and fell right to sleep. His whole body ached almost all of the time, his birthmark itched because he was covering it so much, and he was getting headaches. John warned him to cool off. 

“Listen, lil guy, you’ll do great. Trust me. But if you push yourself so much we’re gonna just be picking up scraps.”

“I’m doing fine,” Sal retorted stubbornly.

He heard Khaeng scoff. While the martial artist professed to hate people like John who didn’t have a background in combat, he’d started hanging around with them both anyway, probably just to be contrary. He was that kind of guy. Actually, he’d clicked with John pretty well; it was impossible to hate the big guy, even if you resented every single member of humanity the way Khaeng seemed to. The one Khaeng didn’t gel with whatsoever was Noelle, who had also started hanging around with the two of them, when she wasn’t with her group of close buddies, England, North and Shane. In fact, they got along so badly, that Sal and John spent most of their time doing damage control for their conversations to stop it devolving any further.

“-at least I actually know how this show works. You just think you can do whatever, don’t you?”

“I take that as compliment.” Khaeng had smirked, a little smugly.

Noelle had been furious. “Why even start wrestling if you don’t respect it as an art? Just stay in your own lane, if you hate it that much.” 

Khaeng had said nothing, but his expression had soured and he’d stormed off. Noelle had also turned on her heel and made her own dramatic exit. John had sighed and fixed Sal with a look, casting his gaze pointedly after the irate martial artist.

“Hey, I’m goin’ after her this time,” Sal said quickly. “I see the grumpy bastard too much anyway. It’s totally your turn to deal with his shit.”

John groaned. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Nope. Your turn!” Sal grinned, and headed off after Noelle, jogging to catch up with her before she left the building. “Hey, wait up. Listen, you just gotta ignore Khaeng. He’s just obstructive on purpose.”

“I hate it,” Noelle hissed. “He sees how I look, how I dress, and he thinks he knows what kind of person I am. He really does think he’s so much better than everyone else. He’s got no respect for anything or anyone.” She looked a little more upset than she was letting on, and Sal felt genuinely sorry. 

“He’s a dick,” Sal agreed. “But he’s pretty confused and lost. He’s in a country he barely knows, speaking a language that isn’t his first, fighting in a style he isn’t familiar with. And he’s the kind of guy who hates showing his feelings. So he’s acting like a dick.” He patted her shoulder with an awkward gentleness. “Don’t let him get to you. Really. He isn’t worth it. You don’t need anyone else’s approval, ‘kay?”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks, Sal. You’re such a good guy. I really hope you make the cut.”

“As opposed to Khaeng?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s gonna make the cut. He’s a dick, but he’s good at what he does. Ugh. I wish he sucked. It’d be easier to hate him if I knew he was out soon.”

“I get it. I feel like that with Araceli,” Sal replied. 

“And McKayla.”

“Merriman.”

“Don’t even get me started,” Noelle laughed. “We could be here all day.” She smiled again. “I’m gonna go catch up with Sonya and the Cyborg- sorry, I mean Britney, and we gotta find Alexia too. We’re grabbing a proper lunch today. See you later.” She hugged him goodbye, and headed off. 

So he went back inside. He had packed his own lunch again this time, and had to get it out of his bag to microwave it. By the time his food was ready, John and Khaeng had come back. They’d eaten their lunches in relative quiet, and then carried on the rest of the day’s training afterward. And in the evening, Sal had walked home with Khaeng, and listened to him bitch about the many, many things he disliked.

Anyway. When John said Sal was pushing himself too much, and Sal said he was fine, Khaeng scoffed. 

“You’re a liar,” Khaeng said, not even looking over at him. “I can hear you pacing during the night.” 

“See!” John replied, indignantly. “You gotta ease up. You gotta. You’ll run yourself into the ground otherwise. If this grouch here is lecturing you on healthy behaviour, you know you’re fucking up.”

“I  _ need  _ to practice,” Sal insisted. “I’m not good enough.”

“Dude,” John retorted. “Dude. You’re holding yourself to impossible standards. I partner with you what, almost every day? You’re crazy good. What is it that you’re not doing right?”

Sal bit his lip, embarrassed. “Flying,” he replied. “I want to be better at flying. I’m just kind of...okay, you know? But I can’t...like, North? That moonsault she did? I wish I could do that. But I’m just...not good enough.”

“Dude,” John said, very quietly, for want of anything else to say.

There was quiet, then Khaeng spoke. “We got our strengths. Big guy is never gonna be a slick martial artist, I’m never gonna be a powerhouse like him. You’re you. You’re not blue hair, or- what’s he called, tiny guy you draw all the time? Looks like jacked twelve-year-old wandered into ring by mistake?”

“Is that actually how you remember Rey Mysterio?” 

“That one!” Khaeng beamed. “You aren’t. You’re Salazar Luis. You figure out who Sal is, and you gonna be unstoppable. Or something deep.” He shrugged, then looked between John and Sal in confusion. “What?”

“That is literally the first time I’ve ever heard you say anything positive,” Sal replied.

“Lil guy’s right, brother,” John chuckled, jostling the Thai martial artist with a big, friendly elbow. “You never stop bitching long enough, normally.”

Khaeng scowled and wouldn’t say anything else constructive after that, because he was a petty child, but when Sal stayed late to train, he lingered behind too, and they walked home together.

“Hey, Sal?” 

The uncertainty in his friend’s voice shocked Sal. He’d never heard Khaeng sound anything less than 100% confident. “What’s up?”

The martial artist chewed his lip. “Cut day tomorrow, right?”

“Right,” Sal nodded, swallowing nervously. “Cut day.” The other guy said nothing. “Are you...worried? You know you made it, man. You’re good. You’ve picked up the wrestling side of things quicker than anyone, so-”

“I’m dropping out.”

That knocked Sal. He blinked, mouth opening and closing in confusion. “What do you mean? Why? You’re doing great. I know you hate it but-”

“What I said to you earlier, about trying to be someone you’re not?” Khaeng sighed. “That. I’m not a wrestler. I’ll never be a wrestler. I wasn’t born for this. Not like you were. And that...it’s okay. I’m gonna travel. See Mexico. The original and the sequel, hey?” He gave an awkward smile. “Thank you...for putting up with me. I know I’m a brat.” 

“I...don’t know what to say,” Sal replied. He couldn’t believe this. “What then? After all that? What are you gonna do next?”

“We’ll see,” Khaeng replied, smirking, and Sal knew whatever happened, he’d be fine.

He wished he could be so certain about himself, though.

 

-

 

Cut day came. He was sat with John, who hadn’t yet found out about Khaeng’s decision and was waiting for their resident grumps to come through the doors. Sal glanced over at Noelle, who was with her other friends, her real friends. She’d be delighted to learn this one. Or not. She wasn’t truly petty or mean. While she hadn’t liked Khemkhaeng at all, she was unlikely to really celebrate him leaving. 

“It’s not like Groucho to be late.” John frowned. “Where’s he at? Didn’t he walk with you?”

Sal shook his head. “He quit.”

“What?” John’s jaw dropped. “Just like that, huh? When he had this made?”

“Yep,” Sal replied bitterly. “Just like that.”

“Hey.” Both of them looked up to see Britney Shane walking past, to rejoin her group after grabbing a coffee. “I heard about your friend bailing. Sucks. I transferred over from MMA, so I know it isn’t easy. Thought he’d stick it out though.” She looked disappointed. “I’d have killed to see him fight for real.”

“He didn’t want to force himself into something he didn’t love,” Sal said. Khaeng’s speech from the other day to him was running through his mind. 

“I guess.” Britney sighed, and then looked over at her friends. “Good luck, guys.” And she was gone.

Not everyone was so nice about it. The rumour had spread fast, and given Khaeng’s temperament, he wasn’t exactly popular. More than a few of the others in their class were pleased to see him go.

“He should never have come here in the first place, if he was going to chicken out before finding if he made the cut,” McKayla could be heard saying, when the news reached her ears. “People like that, quitters, they don’t deserve these opportunities in the first place.”

“They probably asked him to leave,” Merriman said back. “He wasn’t safe to be in the ring with.” A few days prior, he’d caught Merriman with a resounding dropkick that Ken Shamrock had praised; and bitched Merriman out for botching his fall ever so slightly and then complaining that it hurt. Merriman had clearly held a grudge ever since.

Araceli too, offered feigned condolences, a smirk on her face all the while. Sal stared her down. He wasn’t in the mood for any of this today. Not when he didn’t know if he’d made the cut either. 

“Sorry about your buddy,” Lance Douglas said, for once not joking around. “He was fun to mess with. And it was priceless, what happened with Shawne.” 

That over with, people’s attention drifted to the screens. Names went by in quick succession, alphabetical order. Araceli had made it. Britney obviously had. Of course. Soon, John’s name went by too, and he let out a large whoop and hugged Sal tight, probably breaking every single one of his ribs in the process. McKayla had made it, of course. Then Noelle, and Sal couldn’t have been prouder. He waited, on tenterhooks, for his own name to cross the board. 

His stomach churned.

There. The second entry under S, after. Salazar Luis.

He’d made the cut.

He heard John congratulating him, then felt himself lifted up over the giant’s head. Immediately he started squirming to get down, landing on his feet and trying to scowl. But he couldn’t. A huge grin had covered his face. 

 

-

 

That evening he called his foster brother. 

“I made it, Paul. I’m through to the next stage.”

“Hell yeah!” His brother, the brain surgeon, who’d once had the dream of being here instead, gave a loud cheer. “You’re doing great, you crazy little punk. What are you thinking? Have they started talking character yet? What’s the T? Did you tell Jerome yet? Are you gonna be doing this masked or no?”

“One question at a time, idiot.” Sal rolled his eyes. “I’m rolling my eyes so hard, I look like I just died. No, they haven’t. I didn’t tell him. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know shit. All I know is I made it.”

“I’m proud of you,” Paul said. “My dumbass little brother. You’re gonna do great. Just tell your boyfriend, alright?”

“I- yeah, okay. I’ll call Jerome next.” He felt his face flush. Great.

That was something he hadn’t told anyone yet. And he was terrified of it coming out. 

His boyfriend.

Shit.

“Oh, something else,” Paul said, absently. “Your dad tried to call the house the other day.”

Sal froze. “What did you say?”

“That you’d moved. He asked how you were doing.” Sal went quiet. “He’s uh...he’s out soon, right?”

“Yeah,” Sal replied. “Listen, I’m gonna go. Gotta call a few more people, give them the news.”

“You okay? I know your dad is...I mean, a touchy topic, right?”

“I’m okay,” Sal lied, and hung up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dropped a few bombshells this chapter  
> Sal's bi fyi, seeing a dude, his dad is....a mystery, and Khaeng both got properly introduced to us and bailed.  
> promise that isn't the last we see of this grumpy lil shit. i promise
> 
> thank you for your patience, lads


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, sorry! but i got this done over the easter break, and thought I'd post it before going back to uni.  
> sal is having a fun, fun time.
> 
> made a new pseud for my wrestling works  
> gonna post that one post-apocalyptic assassin fic here, methinks lmao

4/

“ _ Hey, it’s my littlest amigo,” _ the man said, on the shitty camcorder video. The kid laughed.  _ “Now you open this. See what it is. _ ”

Tearing paper, and a t-shirt was revealed, with a familiar mask. Rey Mysterio. The kid’s face lit up.

_ “Happy birthday, son.” _

_ “I love you Pa!”  _ Sal - aged what, seven-years old? - threw his arms around the man filming. Adult Sal, watching, shut the video off. It was hard to watch for so many reasons. Not least because the Spanish it was filmed in sounded odd, jarring to his ear, after so long in foster care. 

His dad was getting out of jail soon. Sal’s memories of the man were confusing, garbled. He’d taken him to lucha libre events every weekend, on money probably earned from selling on stolen cars. He’d bought him that shirt, the shirt Sal’s second foster family had thrown out to make him ‘less Mexican’. He’d been in prison over half Sal’s life, a voice on occasional phone calls, the stranger he visited twice a year and fumbled through Spanish conversations with. 

Who had told him he was, under no account, to ever drop out of school. Who’d celebrated and bragged to his cellmates that his son was in college, his son was making something of himself.

Somehow, Sal had never told his dad that he wrestled. Almost out of embarrassment. His dad was such a huge fan, but such a traditionalist. Once, he had said anyone who entered a ring without being able to do a standing moonsault deserved to be beaten with piping until they picked a different career. The point was, he would have opinions. And he would be mad Sal had dropped his studies, changed his name, lost his accent. So Sal had shut that down, even though he was almost certain once he explained, his dad would be proud. Probably. Maybe. 

Who knew? The man was a stranger. Sal hadn’t spoken to him in months. Not since dropping out of college to go to Mexico and train. He had avoided him like the plague. 

_ Hey, Pa, I can do a standing moonsault at least _ , Sal thought, then immediately felt miserable for his other failures, which his dad would notice immediately. Why did Paul have to drop that now? When Sal was actually happy about things? Now he was spiralling into a train of worries. It was 2am. They had classes tomorrow. 

Groaning, he pulled a blanket over his head.

He slept like shit.

 

-

 

“Salazar Luis.” He didn’t register his name at first, but John nudged him forward, and he took a deep breath, before stepping out obediently. A small group of them sat outside Scott Levy’s office. John, Kim Jon Su, a couple of women Sal barely knew, and of course, McKayla and Merriman. Laughing a little to one another.

Today, though, Sal was sleep-deprived as hell, and not in any mood for any stupid fucking games. He shot them both a look, accompanied with a fiendish grin. 

Sal didn’t like to smile too wide. It pulled on his skin where his birthmark was, and it looked creepy and unnatural, where it puckered that little bit. Which was why he did it now. It shut them up quickly, and he walked into Levy’s office, fuelled by caffeine and adrenaline, and feeling too out of it to properly take anything in.

Oh man. Paul would be so jealous when he heard about this. Actually meeting with Raven.

“So…” Levy trailed off, looking at the sheet in front of him, expression carefully measured. He was hard to read. Was he pissed off with Sal? God, he was pissed off. Definitely. “Take a seat. You look like you need it.”

“Had a rough night,” Sal replied, before realising how that could be misconstrued. “In the insomnia sense, not the booze, sex and drugs kind of way. I’m too boring for that.”

Levy gave a slight smirk. “And how do you translate that to a character? Because what I’m reading here is that you’ve trained, you’ve done some jobbing roles for local promotions, and it’s had mixed success- but paper doesn’t tell me anything about what you bring to it. Have you ever needed to properly develop a character?”

Sal nodded. “I have a mask,” he said. “And a persona with it. Some of the times I wrestled, they let me use that.”

“Lucha, huh?” Levy leaned forward, scrutinising Sal intently.

Sal nodded again, squirming a little under that gaze. “Yeah. I went to Mexico for a bit.”

“That tells me what you can do in-ring. Not what you’ve done for character work.” Sal didn’t reply. Levy sighed, and put the file down. “Luis. You came in here all fired up, and look at you now. I’ve never seen anyone deflate so fast. If it makes you this nervous to talk about, the idea isn’t right. Simple as.”

“But-” Sal began. “I like the mask. My birthmark-” He cut off, suddenly. 

Now Levy looked interested. “Your birthmark?”

“I cover it up,” Sal admitted. “Makeup mostly. But the mask, that helped. I could be confident, I could be the cool kind of guy you want to see kick ass. Like this? Fuck no. I’m an overly sarcastic nervous wreck who motormouths when he can’t think of anything else to say, speaks the worst Spanish in the whole world, and to top it all off, my face is fucked up.” He realised he’d just been mouthing off as soon as he finished. “I...have done two-face kind of gimmicks. But I won’t do that again. I just...I don’t want to be that guy. I’d rather be Phantom of the Opera than  _ that guy _ . You gotta let me cover my face. Please.”

“First,” Levy began. “I didn’t call you in here to hear you monologue your every insecurity. And second,” he smiled. “Thank you. That’s useful information. I think that gives us a lot to go on.”

“What do you mean?” Sal asked, heart pounding so goddamn loud he could hear it in his ears.

“You’re hiding. Respect to the tradition, and all that, but your reason for wearing the mask has to be right. And I don’t think it is.” Levy was saying everything that had been Sal’s worst fear coming in here. “I’ll be honest, you could probably sell a masked role. You could do pretty well with it. But what I just saw then, that’s something. That’s something I’d like to work on.” He scribbled a few more notes, and tore the page out. “You’re already in our apartments, aren’t you? You’ll want to extend your lease, from temporary to student. That’s all online, so I understand. Take your notes and go. Tell Shane Merriman it’s his turn.”  He waved a dismissive hand. He hadn’t said very much, but it seemed like an insane amount, and Sal’s head was spinning as he exited.

“Your turn,” he said to Shane, dispassionately, before heading over to John. John had already got his character. It was just amplifying his loud, affable nature tenfold. But then John was good at these things.

“How’d it go, little guy?” John asked, immediately, slapping Sal on the back as he was wont to do. Sal dodged out of the way just in time, avoiding being winded.

“I have no idea,” Sal replied. “He shot the mask idea dead.”

“No way!” John exclaimed. “You love that stuff. I’ve seen your art book. You could give it all up and design costumes full time any day.”

“He thinks I’m hiding,” Sal said. 

“He’s not wrong,” John reluctantly agreed. “I know you’re dead set on it, but man. If you went full mask, you’d lose your bitchy facial expressions. Like now. See, this.” Sal was glaring at John, with sheer murder. “And your timing. You’re great at that stuff, y’know?” 

Sal didn’t. He had only ever been told that he looked dumb, that he smiled like a freak, that he looked like two-face, that he’d never get anywhere with a face like that. Paul had said he was endearing. Jerome said he was cute. But they were close to him. They had to say that. John was a friend, but he said things how they were. He wouldn’t lie. Sal found himself believing John right there. 

“Not that masks suck,” John was saying, quickly. “I mean they gotta work twice as hard to emote to the audience. Ya feel me?”

Sal nodded. He wasn’t sure what he felt. Whether a weight had been lifted from his chest or added on. Whether he felt better or worse. He showed John the paper.

His friend whistled appreciatively. “This isn’t bad.”

“I know. It’s just...not what I expected.”

“It’s you,” John replied, without hesitation. “You can do this.”

_ ‘Salazar Luis, the Hidden Genius. Quiet and deadpan until roused, hiding behind his mane of hair. When he ties his hair back, revealing his birthmark, you know trouble, physical or verbal, is on its way. Master of insults. A sharp wit, and wicked sense of humour _ ’

Yeah.

It wasn’t bad.

Except for one major thing that it demanded.

...not only did he need to show his face, but he needed to show the half he hated people seeing. 

Which was a pretty big except.

In short, he was fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh boy  
> oooooooooo boy
> 
> what is sal gonna do from here? who fucken knows lmao  
> i will get more written as and when. but get more written I will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> I know it's daft of me to take on any new projects, but when I've got time, I definitely wanna explore this more.  
> I only have four ongoing projects now on here! That's something!  
> ........I am a mess.


End file.
